


Ten Twenty-Eight

by Page161of180



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: But also, Costumes, Eliot's canonical love of 80s cinema, Eliot's canonical substance abuse, Everybody Lives, Halloween, M/M, Missing, Pining, Pre-Canon, Quentin's canonical depression and references to canonical attempts, Quentin's semi-canonical feelings about David Bowie in Labyrinth, Realizing, a kinder gentler Library, and then not having to try so hard after all, author is playing fast and loose with dates of canonical events, but the calendar on this show confuses me, canonical bad parenting, canonical past abuse, post-4x13 fix-it, slices of life, trying so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-03 20:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21185855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Page161of180/pseuds/Page161of180
Summary: Ten ways that Quentin Coldwater has spent the twenty-eighth of October, 1993-2020. As excerpted from Order of the Library of the Neitherlands, QUENTIN COLDWATER, Neitherlands: OLN Individual Books Division, LLC (revised 2020).Or: In the lives of soulmates, some themes recur. Eighties cinema is only one of them.





	Ten Twenty-Eight

**Author's Note:**

> I got wind that folks were planning to post stories this week celebrating Eliot's birthday; I hope you don't mind me crashing the party. I've come at the prompt a bit sideways-- both in the focus on Quentin and on the format. The story stretches from pre-canon to post-4x13, with all the heartbreak and trauma that canon entails. But unlike canon, there *is* a happy ending-- to the extent there's any ending at all, that is. 
> 
> Happy birthday, Eliot. And to any bits of Eliot inside of you, too.

**[DRAFT] RECURRING DATES OF SIGNIFICANCE INDEX**

**Order of the Library of the Neitherlands, QUENTIN COLDWATER, Neitherlands: OLN Individual Books Division, LLC (revised 2020) [hereinafter Coldwater (2020)]**

Compiled by: W. Adiyodi, Intake Officer, Underworld Div. [compiler’s notations in brackets]

Ed.: A. Quinn, Librarian-in-Chief {editor’s notations in braces}

_ Pursuant to Chief’s Directive No. A-38240.ii, effective immediately, all sentient creatures (defined per 37 Code of OLN Regulations 382.2(b)(6)(v)) may apply to peruse, in full or in part, all chapters of their Individual Book reflecting events which have already transpired as of the date of application. To aid in perusal and to cut down on the anticipated time needed for perusal appointments, see Directive No. A-38204.ii, Subpart C, Individual Books are being supplemented with an index, excerpting (verbatim) any events chronicled in said Individual Book which occur on a Recurring Date of Significance. Each index shall provide cross-references to the text of the Individual Book and to related readings from other associated Individual Books. Recurring Dates of Significance include, but are not limited to: _

  * _Applicant’s birthday,_
  * _One [1] major religious, national, or cultural holiday of applicant’s choosing,_
  * _Anniversary of applicant’s wedding [or equivalent Romantic or Platonic Commitment Event, see 37 Code of OLN Regulations 382.2(d)(17)],_
  * _Birthday of applicant’s biological, adoptive, or foster child,_
  * _Birthday of applicant’s spouse/partner or soulmate (defined per 37 Code of OLN Regulations 382.2(d)(28))._

**SUBSECTION A**

[ ]

**SUBSECTION B**

[ ]

**SUBSECTION C**

[ ]

**SUBSECTION D**

[ ]

**SUBSECTION E: **Please place an ‘X’ by qualifying Recurring Date of Significance documented in this subsection of the Index. 

Birthday of: (a) spouse/partner __ (b) soulmate  X  (c) both a and b __

{_Note: According to the forthcoming revisions to the relevant Individual Books, this notation will need to be updated in or around June 2022._}

  * Name of spouse/partner or soulmate: Eliot Waugh (v.40)

  * Birthday of spouse/partner or soulmate: October 28

Any chronicled events occurring on the above Recurring Date of Significance follow below. 

  1. **_October 28, 1993 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 1, pp. 14-15]**

[_ Quentin, 3 months _ ; _ Eliot, 2 years; Apart (Category (A)(1)(a)-- not yet met) _]

When Ted came home, Kath was sitting on the floor with a copy of Dr. Spock in one hand, staring at the baby, who was lying on his tummy on the primary-colored playmat. 

“Everything okay, here?” Ted asked, raising one eyebrow. 

On the playmat, the butt of Quentin’s fuzzy yellow onesie wriggled. Kath turned a page in the book, answering without looking up at her husband. “I think he tried to lift his head today. That’s supposed to happen at three months.”

“All right, Curly Q! You’re getting there.” Ted knelt on the floor beside Quentin, awkwardly patting the fuzzy yellow fabric with just the tips of his fingers, afraid to break anything. It wasn’t in Ted’s nature to question Kath, but it seemed to him that Quentin’s head, with its sad, droopy eyes, was too heavy for his little body to ever support. 

“Maybe we should take him off his tummy now?” 

Kath shook her head, still not looking up. “No. Not yet. I want to see if he can get it. He’s already a week behind.”

Ted swallowed. “Isn’t it-- I thought the doctor said those were just guidelines?”

Kath did look up at that, sharply. “How would you know? _ You _ don’t go to the doctor’s appointments. _ You _didn’t read the baby books. I have to do everything. I’m the only one in this house who does anything.”

“Sorry,” Ted started to say, but Kath was already on her feet. 

“If you know so much about it, then _ you _ can deal with him for once while I try to actually _ sleep _ for twenty minutes today, until _ I _need to feed him again.” 

Ted ended up lying on the couch, watching _ Back to the Future _on cable, with Quentin, who was still on his belly, lying on top of Ted’s chest. They stayed like that until Quentin started his hungry fussing-- twenty minutes later. 

Kath didn’t laugh when Ted carried a by-then-crying Quentin up to their room and pointed out that she had guessed the timing exactly right. 

“Did he raise his head yet?”

“Uh. I think he tried.” 

Kath sighed and brought Quentin to her chest. “He just needs to try harder. That’s his problem.”

Ted wasn’t sure, but he nodded anyway. 

//

_ Related reading _: 

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Relationships, _with Father;_ Relationships,_ with Mother_; Mental/emotional health challenges: _fear of inadequacy_.

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: Order of the Library of the Neitherlands, ELIOT WAUGH, Neitherlands: OLN Individual Books Division, LLC (revised 2020) [hereinafter Waugh (2020)], chapter 3, pp. 37-38. [_Spoilers: He ends up wearing a lot of cake. Also, his dad’s _<strike>_kind of_</strike>_ a prick._] {_Agreed, but please consider supporting with parenthetical evidence. I suggest page 38, third line from the top of the page_: “Sarah smiled when one of her sisters took the mylar bow off the torn wrapping paper and stuck it to the curls on the crown of Eliot’s head, but Doug ripped it away, muttering ‘like a girl,’ before Eliot could even smile back._”_}

  1. **_October 28, 2004 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 7, pp. 103-04]**

[_ Quentin, 11 years _ ; _ Eliot, 13 years _ ; _ Apart (Category (A)(1)(a)-- not yet met) _]

[_ Note: The following passage chronicles events taking place over an approximately two-and-a-half week span, from October 13 through October 31, 2003. It is unknown which particular events, if any, took place on October 28. _] 

“It’ll be like practice,” Julia said, eyes squinting as she repositioned the tip of the marker an inch closer to the line of V-shaped mountain peaks drawn on the underside of the table. 

“No, not there!” 

Quentin shook his head back and forth frantically, static charge building where his hair rubbed against the berber carpet. 

“Echomere’s_ lair, _” he moaned in distress.

Julia paused and tilted her head. “You’re right,” she said crisply, before rerouting the river a half-inch lower to avoid the cave. “Anyway, it’s a really good costume idea, and it’s not like you have another costume picked out anyway.”

He had been thinking about Indiana Jones, actually. But Julia kept talking.

“And like I said, it’ll be like practice for when we _ actually _ go to Fillory. So, my idea is obviously the best and that’s what we’re doing.”

The sunlight through the dining room window lit up the end of Julia’s pigtail as she nodded fiercely at her own declaration and Quentin found that he could only nod back.

“So, um. What do I need for the costume?”

Julia just smiled, looking away from their map briefly. “Leave it to me.” 

For the next two and a half weeks, Julia would, without any pattern that Quentin could discern, sporadically pull sweaters over his head or slip oversized glasses onto his narrow face and either nod or frown and peel them back off, while Quentin blinked at her in increasingly cow-eyed adoration. The project was finally complete when the two stood together, side-by-side in front of the long mirror in Julia’s mother’s bedroom, with the pillowcases in hand that they would use to stash their collected treats. Quentin looked at his reflection, with the navy blue cardigan and the slicked-down hair and the round glasses with the punched out frames. Then he looked at Julia, with her shiny brown hair coiled in neat braids, and a jauntily tipped beret, and a pendant on a long gold chain. 

He smiled. 

“Not bad, Jane.”

Julia’s smile lit her whole face. “Pretty darn good--

[_ Oh. Christ. _]

\--Martin.”

//

_ Related reading: _

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX {_I can-- get someone else. To fill this part in later._}

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: Waugh (2020), chapter 5, p. 83-85. [_CW: homophobic language_. _Seriously,_ such _a prick._] {_I’d suggest adding another parenthetical for support, but. Let’s just not._}

  1. **_October 28, 2009 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 18, pp. 242-43]**

[_ Quentin, 16 years _ ; _ Eliot, 18 years _ ; _ Apart (Category (A)(1)(a)-- not yet met) _]

A few days after the party, Quentin found himself fidgeting in his bed, hand hovering nervously around his belt buckle, still thinking about The Movie. 

That’s not what he_ told _ himself he was doing. He told himself he was still thinking about sitting underneath the orange and black crepe paper streamers above Alyssa’s rec room couch, so close to Julia. Close enough to smell the sickly-sweet Diet Dr. Pepper on her breath. Close enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice above her cute, throaty whisper for him to hear when she widened her eyes and said with a nod toward the TV screen, “seriously, how are his pants _ that _tight?”

But-- well. His pants really _ were _super fucking tight, weren’t they?

Fucking eighties fashion.

Fucking _ Labyrinth _.

Fucking David Bowie.

Oh.

_ Oh _.

_ Fucking _David Bowie.

He only had a few minutes to enjoy the thought before the sharp rap on the door made him still his hand once more.

“Everything okay in there, Curly Q?” 

Quentin bit off a curse and yelled, “fine!” He couldn’t really blame Ted for not trusting him with the door shut, anymore. 

Not since-- everything.

The gray flooded in again at that thought, drowning the spark in Quentin’s gut that had been crackling to life just a moment before. Quentin heard Ted head back down the stairs and pull out the kitchen chair, probably to work on his models some more. 

Quentin tried to think about the movie again, _ or _ Julia, _ or _\-- anything. But thinking suddenly seemed very hard again. So did lifting his hand. It was much easier to lie very still and close his eyes.

He stayed like that until morning. 

//

_ Related reading _:

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Bisexuality, _developing self-awareness thereof_; Mental/emotional health challenges: _depression_; Relationships, _with Julia Wicker_; Relationships, _with Father_; <strike>Relationships, _with big-drama white dudes who think pants just exist to draw attention to their junk_</strike>. {_This is not a listed topic in the Recurring Themes Index associated with this Book._} [_Yeah? Well maybe it should be._] { _. . . You may have a point._}

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: Waugh (2020), chapter 14, p. 360-68. [_Seriously, though-- don’t. At least he gets the fuck out of there soon. Jesus, why do some people even have kids?_ _<strike> Alice, you can just cut this if it’s too much editorializing</strike>._] 

  1. **_October 28, 2013 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 20, p. 411]**

[_ Quentin, 20 years _ ; _ Eliot, 22 years _ ; _ Apart (Category (A)(1)(h)-- Met {?}, not yet acquainted) _] 

<strike>{_ Really? _ } [ _ Yeah, apparently Eliot spilled a drink on Coldwater at some bar in St. Mark’s Place when Coldwater was a freshman. Coldwater never lifted his eyes up from his All-Stars to see who did it. _ ] { _ I guess I’m more surprised that _ Eliot _ didn’t notice _ Q.} [ _ Dude was so wasted he wouldn’t have noticed oncoming traffic. Almost didn’t, actually. _]</strike>

“Q, come on. I feel like I never see you anymore. You’re either sleeping for days on end, or you’re, like, Inigo Montoya-levels of fixated on Fillory, even though midterms are coming up, and you-- Jesus, Q. That’s, like, your fifth cigarette in the last half hour.”

Quentin took the cigarette out of his mouth, but he didn’t put it out. He just held onto it while he tried to drag his coat on without taking his messenger bag off his shoulder first. 

Julia leaned against the counter, watching with her sad, ‘I’m a functional person who looks for internships now and doesn’t read fairytales anymore’ eyes. “Are you even going to eat breakfast first?”

He didn’t. There didn’t seem like much point.

//

_ Related reading: _

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Mental/emotional health challenges: _depression_; Mental/emotional health challenges: _over-reliance on fiction as escapism_; Relationships, _with Julia Wicker_; Scholastic achievements, _collegiate_.

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: Waugh (2020), chapter 23, pp. 502-04 [_CW: alcohol abuse, narcotics abuse, prescription-pill abuse, hallucinogenic agent abuse, drug [other] abuse, unprotected sex_].

  1. **_October 28, 2015 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 25, pp. 506-10]**

[_ Quentin, 22 years _ ; _ Eliot, 24 years _ ; _ Together* (*Note: this is the first Recurring Date of Significance spent together.) _] 

“Okay. I just-- it seems weird to have, like, a ‘rager’ on a Thursday night when this weekend is Halloween, anyway, and-- oh. _ Mmph _.”

“Shh, shh. Bottoms-up, leading man. _ That’s _the ticket.” 

Quentin kind of wanted to flip Eliot off, but there was actually something kind of comforting about the way Eliot grabbed the back of his neck to tip his head back and ease the contents of the martini glass down his throat. Not that Quentin needed much coaxing. Whatever was in the drink tasted like grapefruit and mint and how it feels when someone rubs the knuckle of your index finger after you drill Popper 74 too many times. Also a lot of alcohol. 

“Hm. Oh. Okay. That was really-- but, um. _ What _is the source of this tradition, again?”

Quentin lifted his arm to wipe the corner of his mouth on the his sleeve, but stopped when he remembered that the sleeve belonged to Eliot and/or Margo, or whoever they’d magically liberated the trench coat it was attached to _ from _. Eliot tilted his head and regarded him with a look that seemed, to Quentin, almost fond.

It was, in fact, a lot more fond than Quentin could understand at that particular moment in time.

With a sigh, Eliot reached out and adjusted the collar of the trench. “I still can’t believe you didn’t bring a boombox. It’s not even a _ costume _ without the boombox.” 

Quentin looked down at the coat and the slouchy pants and the high tops. It felt a lot like a costume, to him, especially given that Margo had sat him down in front of her vanity mirror for what felt like hours, spelling his hair into a little bun that it was too short to stay in unaided. When he’d asked her why, she’d responded, cryptically, “it’s cheaper than buying a card.” 

It also bore noting that, of everyone gathered in the Physical Kids Cottage, _ only _ Eliot was without a costume. Margo was strutting around in a blazer and pleated skirt that was just different enough from her everyday wear to make clear that she was every inch a Heather. Alice looked _ really _ pretty in a light pink dress that only looked vaguely familiar to Quentin, but that Eliot had recognized immediately and approved of. He’d even seen Penny and Kady, both in full _ Risky Business _ tighty-whities and tube socks, making out in the jean-bag chair earlier. 

Quentin found himself wondering what Eliot _ would _ have worn, if he wasn’t apparently above the party rules he’d imposed on everyone else. His thoughts went unbidden to Jareth the Goblin King-- probably, he told himself, because Eliot was already such a big fan of the ascots and the vests and the-- uh, _ pants _. 

Instead of saying any of that, he raised his eyebrows at Eliot in challenge. “Where was I supposed to get a boombox?”

“_ Q _ . You’re a _ magician _.”

The knowledge of that identity was new enough that it still felt good to hear said out loud, notwithstanding the lingering guilt at having used said identity to help accidentally summon a monster from another world in the past month and a half. It felt especially good when said in Eliot’s voice. 

“Wait. Sorry. Are you-- there’s a spell to make a _ boombox _?” Quentin asked, curiosity piqued. 

Eliot smiled broadly, making his whole face look younger and a little bit sweet, before he shook the expression off and reached out to lace his fingers with Quentin’s. “Mm. I can show you. But tonight you’re giving those aching hands a rest, mister. It’s party time.”

A shiver ran down Quentin’s back when Eliot’s hand squeezed around Quentin’s sore knuckles. He licked his lips.

“Right. But. Um. You still haven’t answered my question about. Why exactly that is? I mean, there’s still class tomorrow.”

Eliot sighed and used his free hand to gesture widely around the crowded room of Marty McFly’s and whatever-her-name-from-_ Flashdance _’s. “Does the miracle of ‘80s cinema require any deeper reason to be fêted?”

Quentin followed his gaze around the common room, accepting that it probably didn’t. His eyes caught on where Alice was wedged into the window seat, biting her lip with increasing discomfort while Margo leaned into her space. 

He started to drift toward her without thinking, but Eliot stopped him with their still-joined hands.

“Ah, ah. Not so fast, Mr. Dobler. You can pull Baby out of her corner in a minute._ I _need you first.”

Quentin’s breath caught at the words. The echo of his pulse in his ears got louder, too-- enough that he almost didn’t hear when Eliot said, “Pinch me.”

“Sorry. What?”

“_ Pinch _me.” 

No, he _ had _heard it right.

“Um. Is this, like, a spell thing? Or--”

Eliot sighed-- again. “_ No _ , Q. It’s not a spell thing. Although there _ is _ a spell for-- let’s say, clamping. It’s _ fantastic _. I can teach you that one, too.”

Eliot’s eyes went warm and hazy with memory and Quentin choked. 

“Sorry, I just-- I don’t think I understand?”

“There’s nothing to understand, Q. Just pinch me. Here.”

Eliot untangled their fingers and held his hand out, palm up. He finagled Quentin’s own hand until Quentin’s thumb and forefinger were on either side of the meat at the base of Eliot’s thumb. 

Eliot’s palm was warm and a little sweaty from where he’d held it against Quentin’s. It felt, to Quentin, _ really _fucking good. 

“_ Pinch _,” Eliot prompted again. 

This time Quentin did. Then dropped his hand away.

“There. Was that so hard?”

“I still don’t think I-- uh, really follow why that--”

Eliot ignored Quentin’s stuttering and inclined his head toward the steps, where a Dread Pirate Roberts had been sprawled lazily, eyes locked on Eliot for most of the conversation. “He thanks you for your service, all the same. _ A pinch to grow an inch, _ you know. Although, candidly, I’ll be growing a lot more than _ that _if his sword work’s any good at all.”

Quentin managed to table his reaction to Eliot’s lascivious look long enough to piece through his words. “Wait-- _ a pinch to _ \-- that’s a-- Wait. Eliot. Is it your _ birthday _?”

Eliot hummed what Quentin took to be a ‘yes’-- casually, like he _ hadn’t _been refusing all week to provide any explanation as to why, exactly, the Physical Kids were hosting a second annual costume-mandatory ‘80s-movie blowout on a random Thursday night. Quentin forgot to be annoyed when Eliot reached out and drew him in, bringing their faces close despite the difference in their heights. 

“Now, I’ll have to deprive you of my much-desired company so that I can go unwrap my present,” he said with a grin, like he was sharing a secret. “But I _ promise _ I’ll think of you the whole time.”

“This has been-- a really weird conversation,” Quentin managed to say, once his voice was working again. 

Eliot just laughed, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the top of Quentin’s enspelled hair. 

He took off up the stairs with the man in black shortly after that. Once they both disappeared, Quentin suddenly wondered what would have happened if he _ had _brought the boombox, or the uncharged iPhone socked away in his drawer, and he could run outside and lift it up outside the window that he knew was Eliot’s.

“Weird thought,” he told himself, before grabbing another full martini glass and making his way to Alice. 

He felt the weight of the kiss on his head all night.

//

_ Related reading _:

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Relationships, _with Eliot Waugh_; <strike>Relationships, _with Alice Quinn_</strike>. {_I think that wasn’t actually the point-- not of this one, anyway._}

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: Waugh (2020), chapter 27, pp. 598-602 [_CW: pining_].

  1. **_October 28, 2016_ [from Coldwater (2020), chapter 30, p. 702]**

[_ Quentin, 23 years _ ; _ Eliot, 25 years _ ; _ Apart (Category (C)(2)-- Met, voluntarily living apart [subcategory 4: work or other vocational obligations in separate political regions, landmasses, and/or planets]) _]

Quentin almost didn’t remember the date, or what it meant, until the Niffin living in his back brought it up. 

“God, I don’t even think _ you _ realized you were jealous, when he took that other boy up to his room at his big, pay-attention-to-me-but-I-won’t-say-why party,” she said, smile blue and sickly. “But that’s not surprising. You didn’t even realize you wanted his cock down your throat until you were already _ gagging _on it, did you?”

Quentin tried to lift his head from the lines of Etruscan in front of him, which were all bleeding together, but the effort felt impossible. 

“Do you think he’ll ask his little _ wife _ to dress up like his ‘80s dream-boy and pinch him this year?” Alice went on, voice still precise even at lightning speed. “Or is that a special treat for guys he’s afraid to ask to be nice to him because his daddy so _ obviously _used to smack--” 

“Alice, _ please. _ Just-- another twenty minutes, okay? I’m trying to-- But I can’t _ think _. I can’t--”

The flames behind Alice’s eyes danced. 

“You know your problem, Quentin? You just need to try _ harder. _” 

Quentin wasn’t sure about that, but he nodded anyway.

//

_ Related reading _:

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Quests and other major undertakings: _restoration of Alice Quinn_; Mental/emotional health challenges: _reluctance to seek outside help_; Relationships, _with Eliot Waugh_; Relationships, _with Alice Quinn _[<strike>_?_]. [_It was really the Niffin talking to him, though._</strike>] {_I appreciate the thought, Penny, but-- I know what I’ve done._}

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: [_No contemporaneous account exists for this Earth-based date. For an account of chronicled events during the roughly equivalent Fillorian season, please see Waugh (2020), chapters 30-31, pp. 675-704._]

  1. **_October 28, 2017 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 34, p. 872]**

[_ Quentin, 24 years _ ; _ Eliot, 26 years _ ; _ Apart (Category (B)(12)(j)(xxiv)-- Met, kept apart by circumstance [subcategory 2: unintentionally stranded on separate planets, universes, and/or planes of existence]) _] 

One night toward the end of October, a few weeks after Eliot’s first rabbit had come and gone, Quentin found himself lying on one of the chaise chairs on the patio, buttoned up against the cold that Brakebills’ weather-control spells could no longer keep away. He had started out on his back, but his gaze drifted to one of the lit windows, where he could just make out the silhouette of a woman-- a stranger now, he thought-- hunched over her desk with the door locked. He pulled his gaze away, but _ then _it drifted and caught and stayed on the one dark window on this side of the Cottage. He found that it hurt, seeing that room empty, when it had always been so full of life and color and invitation. So he turned onto his side, and then eventually collapsed onto his stomach. 

The three rabbits appeared on the brickwork beside the foot of his chair-- almost literally under his nose. 

“RESEND THIRD PAGE PLEASE,” the first croaked. She was followed in quick succession by the second and third, who wheezed out, in disjointed explanation, “SECRET TRANSCRIPTS LIKE GREMLINS,” “DON’T GET WET.”

Quentin raised himself up by sheer force of will and went inside to his own room and the overdue copy of the _ The Tales of the Seven Keys _. He wondered how Eliot’s bunny-relayed copy of the story had gotten wet, where his part of their quest was taking him. Sort of wished he could be there, even though there was work to do here, too. Then he recited the apparently water-damaged scene to the rabbits, shortened to fit their negotiated word limit. 

As the rabbits popped away, he squeezed his eyes shut and thought the two extra words he hadn’t had the space to send. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. 

And also, the third. 

_ ELIOT. _

//

_ Related reading _:

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Quests and other major undertakings: _role in turning off magic_; Quests and other major undertakings: _Key quest_.

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: [_No contemporaneous account exists for this Earth-based date. For an account of chronicled events during the equivalent FIllorian season, please see Waugh (2020), chapter 34, pp. 753-802._]

  1. **_October 28, 2018 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 47, p. 1264]**

[_ Quentin, 25 years _ ; _ Eliot, 27 years _ ; _ Apart (Category (B)(12)(j)(xxiv)-- Met, kept apart by circumstance [subcategory 14: possession and/or mind control]) _] 

Quentin made himself sit and watch the digital clock on the microwave until the numbers changed to 12:00. The Monster had poofed away-- to Cleveland, although Quentin didn’t know that-- an hour before. He’d had a new shirt on today. It said “Pretty in Stink.” There was a picture of a skunk. 

Quentin had gagged when he saw it, and not just because of the bloodstains.

If Julia had been a month slower in getting their true identities back, he thought as the second zero on the clock changed to a one, then he wouldn’t have noticed, or cared about, the change in date. And if _ he _ had been a second _ faster _ in blocking Eliot’s shot last spring, then Eliot would be pretending to protest the extra calories in a slice of cake right now, ticking off another year on his journey toward becoming the white-haired old man who had taken care of Quentin until his body gave out, who Quentin had seen in his dreams, even when he was Brian.

“Jesus, Q,” Julia said when she found him, still sitting at the kitchen counter hours later. “Did you sleep at all? It smells like an ashtray in here.”

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Research, or-- It’ll be back. Soon, probably.”

Julia bit her lip. “Would you at least eat some breakfast first?” 

He didn’t. There didn’t seem to be much point. 

//

_ Related reading _:

  * RECURRING THEMES INDEX: Quests and other major undertakings: _defeating the Monster of Blackspire_; Relationships, _with Eliot Waugh_; Relationships, _with Julia Wicker_. {_Please add: _“Mental/emotional health challenges: depression.”}

  * For a contemporaneous account of how the relevant spouse/partner or soulmate spent the day, please see: [_I’m not sure how to handle this one._] {_I’ll check with Legal._}

  1. **_October 28, 2019 [ ] _**

[ ]

{_ I can-- ask Legal about this one, too. _}

  1. **_October 28, 2020 _[from Coldwater (2020), chapter 61, pp. 1651- [_ongoing_] ]**

[_ Quentin, 27 years _ ; _ Eliot, 29 years _ ; _ Together. _]

Quentin balanced the too-full glass of red in one hand and the tiny lit candle in the other as he made his way from the kitchen to the big couch. The movie Eliot had requested was still playing, casting bluish shadows over the birthday’s boy profile as he curled up on the couch, asleep. 

Quentin had watched Eliot’s body lie sacked out on this couch so many times, before. It had never felt anything like this. 

When Quentin sat back down in the empty spot beside Eliot-- carefully, so he wouldn’t spill on Kady’s upholstery-- Eliot snuffled and burrowed closer, his whole body listing toward Quentin. Quentin leaned forward just far enough to rest the glass of wine on the coffee table, aiming for one the coasters that Kady insisted on. Once the wide base of the glass landed on the little square of cork, he reached for the remote and hit pause. The screen froze on Baby watching Johnny’s car speed away down the gravel road. 

Once he’d settled back in his seat, he squeezed Eliot’s shoulder.

“_ El _,” he whispered.

Eliot stirred, his eyebrows furrowing and the corners of his mouth pulling down. Quentin smiled. He was still smiling when Eliot blinked his eyes open and took in the paused movie and the pink-and-white candle shrinking by the second between Quentin’s thumb and forefinger. 

“Hmm,” Eliot hummed, voice still sleepy. “I didn’t realize we’d veered into the _ Sixteen Candles _portion of this little movie marathon. Will Jake Ryan be arriving soon?”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I’d put the candle in your wineglass and make you sit cross-legged on the table, but I don’t know if an old man like you would ever be able to stand up again, so.”

“_ Ass _ ,” Eliot giggled, sitting up. “I’m going to age even better than this _ very _nice Sangiovese, and you know it.”

Quentin did know it. 

They were sitting inches apart, Quentin propped on his knees, Eliot still a little bit slouched into the couch cushion. Quentin thought suddenly of the kiss Eliot had given him at the Physical Kids Cottage, a couple years and a lifetime ago. His fingers itched to brush the stray curls back from Eliot’s forehead and return the favor. Instead, he held the melting candle up a little higher, until it was close enough to cast shadows that made the always-dramatic angles of Eliot’s face appear even more so.

“Make a wish?” he offered quietly, holding his breath.

He had half expected it, but it still hurt, when Eliot drew back immediately, putting space between them. 

“I’m afraid my track record with genies leaves something to be desired,” Eliot said, voice too casual. 

“It’s not that kind of wish,” Quentin answered, trying not to let his irritation show. He wasn’t succeeding. “And it’s not a genie. It’s _ me _.”

Eliot’s eyes betrayed nothing. “Yes, I noticed.” 

“Then what’s-- _ shit _. Oh. Ouch.”

The hot wax that had been pooling at the top of the stubby birthday candle finally dripped onto Quentin’s skin. “_ Shit, _” he repeated, shaking out his hand, and putting the flame out in the process. 

“_ God _. Here, let me see that.” 

Eliot reached forward and uncurled Quentin’s clenched fingers. It was instinct-- or need-- that made him automatically bring the singed tips to his mouth to soothe the burn. 

The world swayed-- for Quentin, at least.

Eliot only held his lips to Quentin’s fingers for a moment. But instead of taking his mouth away after, he slid it to the base of Quentin’s palm and pressed a long, long kiss into the warm, damp skin there, his eyelids falling shut.

“I don’t need a wish,” he finally said when he was done, so softly Quentin could barely hear him. “You’re my gift, Q. Just-- you being here.”

Quentin’s exhale, when it finally came, was shaky. 

Gathering the courage that Eliot always insisted he was so full of, Quentin inched his palm away from Eliot’s lips to rest against Eliot’s cheek, instead. “Should I, uh-- should I have put a bow on?” he asked, letting his thumb brush over Eliot’s stubble. 

A shadow that Quentin didn’t understand fell over Eliot’s face, but it passed quickly. 

“Don’t need one,” Eliot said, reaching out to brush his own hand through the hair at Quentin’s temple. You know. Like friends do. “You’re pretty enough as it is.”

It was now or never, Quentin thought. Or maybe it had just been long enough. 

“The thing with gifts is-- the whole point is kinda-- to _un_wrap them.” 

The hand in Quentin's hair stilled.

"Eliot?"

Eliot's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Quentin found himself pushing backwards in frustration. 

“Jesus, El. You can just-- tell me, okay? If you don't want this. 'Cause I feel like we've been-- It's been _six months_ since--”

“I know _ exactly _how long it’s been, thanks,” Eliot countered, snapping to life and talking over Quentin. “I don’t see what that has to do with--”

“It _ has to do with _ the fact that you-- you brought me back _ six months ago_, Eliot _ . _ And we _ both _ know how it happened. And that the spell didn’t work just because we’re such, like, _ great pals _.”

Eliot looked down at his lap at that. Quentin kept talking.

“But every time I-- I _ know _ you love me, too. Or you did. But you don’t-- And I-- I get it. I get that I’ve been-- it’s been a lot, probably, since I got back. Trying to, like, pull myself back into a _ person_, but--”

“_Hey, hey _ , no.” Eliot leapt into action at once, his arm wrapping around Quentin’s shoulders, bringing Quentin’s face down to rest in the crook of his shoulder. “Q, it’s not anything like that. I’m-- _ so _fucking proud of you, baby.”

Quentin snorted-- and not only at the return of the endearments that dropped so easily from Eliot’s lips, even when he was keeping Quentin at arm’s length. 

“I _ mean _it,” Eliot said, more insistent. “Everything you’re doing to take care of yourself. How far you’ve come--”

“I barely got out of bed this morning.” 

“But you _ did_. And you even ate breakfast.”

“That _ you _made.”

“And _ you _ate.” 

Quentin tried to lift his heavy head and look at Eliot, but Eliot just pulled him in tighter, running his hand up and down the back of Quentin’s sweater. It was one of Brian’s-- a light butter-yellow color that Quentin would never have picked, but it was soft. Quentin liked the way that Eliot could never keep his hands off of it.

“I’m just saying,” Quentin said after another moment of letting Eliot hold him. “I can-- try harder. If that’s the problem.”

Eliot pulled back just far enough that he could look into Quentin’s eyes. “_Q,_” he said, helping to lift Quentin's chin with his hand. “You try _so _hard. You try harder than anyone I know. You don’t need to do any more than what you’re already doing every day. Not for me. Not for _anyone_.”

“Then-- what--”

Eliot looked away, pressing his lips together. When he looked back to Quentin, his eyes were wet and a little lost. He blinked once, then a few more times, Quentin watching the flutter of his eyelashes each time.

“You were _ dead _,” Eliot finally managed to say. 

It was one of only a handful of times he’d used the word, since Quentin came back. 

“You were dead, and now you’re _ not _ ,” Eliot explained, with as much wonder in his voice as that first day that Quentin had returned topside, when Eliot had pulled him into a hug that Quentin had thought might crush his bones. “And I know I said that I would be brave. And I’m _trying_, but-- But, _ Q_. I look at you. _ Alive_. And I think-- _God_, how can I possibly ask for _ more_?”

Quentin took in Eliot's wide eyes, the tight chords of his throat. And it occurred to him, that maybe he wasn't the only one who needed to hear that they didn't need to try any harder than they already were. 

"Eliot," Quentin commanded, making this as simple as it was. "_Kiss me._"

Eliot’s eyebrows pulled in, and he swallowed, looking for something more to say. But before Eliot could talk himself into another knot, Quentin lifted his chin-- it was easy with Eliot's hand to guide him. He brought his mouth to Eliot’s, and parted it, and filled the space where Eliot’s words always failed him with every sweet, soft thing that Eliot had wished for, silently, _obviously_, all the same. Eliot held onto Quentin, at first, like someone afraid to crease the tissue paper, then tighter and tighter until he was clutching fit to rip.

When Quentin finally drew back, Eliot’s eyes stayed closed, his mouth wet and slack. 

“I think I might have to ask you to pinch me again,” he said, after a moment, eyes blinking open, the light from the television dappling his face. 

“I’ve got a better idea,” Quentin said.

He stood and pulled Eliot up by his hands, and drew him close. Toward him. Toward their future. Toward many happy returns. Toward--

[_ To be continued; story ongoing _.]

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> [P.S. For those playing along at home, at Eliot's '80's movie/not-birthday party, Eliot and Margo dress Quentin up as Lloyd Dobler from 'Say Anything,' from the iconic scene where he stands outside his love interest's house and declares himself by hoisting a boombox over his head to serenade her. Margo is dressed as one of the uber-preppy HBiCs from 'Heathers' (a.k.a, pretty much her natural state). Kady and Penny both wear white button-down shirts with undies and tube socks, a la the scene from 'Risky Business' where Tom Cruise's character lip syncs while he has the house to himself. (I imagine the prospect of Kady in just a button-down and tighty-whities was a significant inducement in getting Penny to actually play along.) Alice wears a meticulously spelled replica of Baby's pink dress from the final scene of 'Dirty Dancing'-- to Eliot's great delight. And Eliot himself wears no costume-- or alternately, the same costume he wears everyday, depending on how you look at it. 
> 
> P.P.S. My apologies for teenage Quentin's one-track mind regarding the late and dearly missed David Bowie. Bowie was a versatile and iconic artist who enriched lives (including my own) in more ways than I can count. He was *also* physically striking, to put it mildly. Teen-Q is rather focused on the second bit here, understandably, but I'd hate to compress Bowie's legacy to just that.]


End file.
